"The memory of some fairer face in America, I suppose. Well, we shall see. Good-morning, Madame Evelini," he said, acknowledging that lady's salutation. "Charming day. Allow me to present to you my friend Mr. Oranmore."
From the first moment the lady's eyes had fallen on the face of Louis, she had gazed as if fascinated. Every trace of color slowly faded from her face, leaving her cold and pale as marble. As his name was uttered she reeled, as if she were faint, and grasped the arm of Lugari for support.
"Whom did you say?" she asked, in a breathless voice.
"Mr. Oranmore, a young American," replied Lugari, looking in amazement from the lady to Louis—who, quite as much amazed as himself, stood gazing upon her, lost in wonder.
"Oranmore!" she exclaimed, unheeding their looks—"Oranmore! Surely not Barry Oranmore?"
"That was my father's name," replied the astonished Louis.
A low cry broke from the white lips of the lady, as her hands flew up and covered her face. Lugari and Louis gazed in each other's faces in consternation. She dropped her hands at last, and said, in a low, hurried voice:
"Excuse this agitation, Mr. Oranmore. Can I have the pleasure of a private interview with you?"
"Assuredly, madam," said the astonished Louis.
"Well, call at my residence in the Palazzo B——, this afternoon. And now I must ask you to excuse me, gentlemen. Good-morning."